Here lies the irony—a symphony of silence, orchestrated under the gilded covers of suburban complacency. Once, they whispered of light, but the night scoffed, drenching words in shadows.
Electric angels hum their forgotten hymns, while lumens lament across voids unimagined. Ceiling fans compose symphonies, mock operas where ceiling and pavement collide maliciously, yet gracefully.
Among these starlit insipidities, one finds solace in obsolete melodramas and interludes in simple typography.
Cuddle your convictions enlightened by irony, dance luminescent to their decrees, for in the silence that falls after the laugh, a truth hums in quiet desperation.